


First Mission

by flinchflower



Series: Flashback [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood, Discipline, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Impala, Spanking, YED - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt #6, Sir (Past day).  A threat to Sammy has 16 year old Dean taking off on a manhunt without John's knowledge.  And he pays the consequences for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Mission

**Author's Note:**

> See Series header for additional info: http://archiveofourown.org/series/197336  
> Warning for strict parental discipline, including a spanking.

“DAD!” Sam scrambles up from the couch where he’d been parked in front of cartoons, and John briefly remembers that today was a half day, last day of school. 

“Hey, buddy, what’s the deal,” he asks – Sam isn’t usually so vociferous in his greetings, and the fact that Dean hasn’t appeared concerns him. The kid replies fast, chattering, fountaining information, his conversation littered with questions before John stops him, frowning.

“No, the lead didn’t work out, Sam, it’s why I’m back early. Where’s your brother,” he asks, knowing the sixteen year old isn’t in the house where he belongs. Sam shifts uncomfortably.

“He went out.”

“Sammy.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“Samuel. Report.” His son sounds upset, best to nip that in the bud before he gets irrational about things.

“Some guy was buggin’ me on the way home. I took care of it, really I did, but when I told Dean he took off – he wouldn’t LISTEN!”

“How did you take care of it.” Great. Dean in another fight. At least they’ll be out of here by the weekend, he just wants to get some more shifts in at the auto shop first. But he’s curious to know what the twelve year old did, to “take care of it.”

“I, Dad, the guy was weird, so I cut over a couple streets where the little kids have the crossing guard and told him. I didn’t want the wierdo to know where we lived. The guard used to be a Marine, dad, he made me wait with him until Ms. Williams next door came to walk Danny the rest of the way, and the cops were there and everything.”

Shit. “You talk to the police?”

“No, Mr. Vine saw him too.”

John pauses. “Sammy, what was so weird about the guy?” It isn’t like his youngest son to be upset by strange behaviour, come to think of it.

“He, he knew my name, kept calling to me to come to him – dad, he had these freaky yellow contacts in-“

“Get your bag.” John snaps to attention, and Sam complies, startled but obedient. Checking the gun locker, he realizes there’s a pistol missing, and swears to himself. _Damn it Dean, I didn’t tell you about the demon last week to have you thinking you could go after it yourself!_ And another part of him screams that he had no business as a father to make such a mistake, tell his child about something like that. He ignores both, and loads Sam on into the car. “What did the cops do?”

“Said they were gonna run him out to the edge of town, told him he’d better stay gone.”

“Good. You take this, Sammy,” he says, putting his heavy journal in the child’s lap, open to St. Michael’s prayer – the Breastplate. “Your job is to stay in the car, say that over and over, get it memorized, you don’t stop until I’m back with Dean.” The secondary plan goes unspoken, the one that they go over on training nights, outside of the context of a hunt so it doesn’t terrify his children, the plan of what to do if he doesn’t come back.

“Okay.” 

Sam’s scared, he knows, and John hates that he has no time. But he gets to the edge of town, and for once gets lucky, spots Dean trailing someone who seems unsuspecting. 

“That your guy, Sam?”

“No. Jacket looks the same, but the weirdo had on red pants.”

“Stay put, keep with the prayer.”

“Yessir.”

John collars his eldest son easily, his ability to sneak up on the boy is gonna be another part of their discussion later. “Do you even know what kind of hot water you’re in?”

The man Dean’s been trailing turns at that, sees John holding him by his collar. “Need help, son?” His eyes are blue as the sky on a summer day. John feels Dean’s shock at realizing he has the wrong quarry, even as his son replies. 

“No sir. He’s my dad, I’m in trouble.”

The stranger chuckles and relaxes. “No problem then. Had a stranger approach a boy earlier, my brother’s on the force.”

“Get in the car, Dean. Thanks for checking, sir,” John tells the man gruffly, watches him smile and walk off. The ride home is silent, his sons both know better than to spark John’s temper in the car, and when they get inside, John bodily hauls the older boy in, frisks his pockets, pats him down, placing the single weapon Dean has on the table. A .38, nothing more. He unloads it, and is shocked that it’s packing hollow point rounds inside.

“I was just trying to keep us SAFE,” Dean yells, seeing John turn to him.

“And you- get in my room. NOW.”

“YOU told me about him, what-“

“Dean.” The name is deadly quiet, and his son has the sense to flee, at least. John’s heart is hammering, thinking of Dean out there stalking strangers with no backup, no protection other than a single pistol that someone bigger than him could still easily wrest from the boy. Sam’s still standing in the doorway, shoulder clinging to it, holding John’s journal. God. John’s heart seizes. His little boy. So close. 

“Sammy,” he says, forcing his tone not to show his fear, as his mind races to think how fast they can leave. “You memorize that?”

“I, I, I’m s-sorry, Dad,” Sam falters. “I only said it twice before you came back, I-“

“That’s fine, son. You maybe keep working, see if you can do that, I need to call Bobby.”

Sam’s uncertain eyes meet his. The only time they call Bobby is when John’s planning for some training or research, or when the shit hits the fan badly. Usually it’s Pastor Jim he calls.

“We have to go?”

“I think so, buddy. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s chin lifts. “Today was the last day, I’ve got Dean and me’s records an’ everything, it’s okay, Dad,” he says gamely, and twelve-year olds shouldn’t have to be this brave and calm. “Maybe I should go an’ get our stuff packed out to the car.”

Not that there was ever much to pack. Everything they own fits in the Impala, John always rents furnished places, or buys furniture from Goodwill that gets left in the house.

“That’d be a big help, Sammy.” It’s not fast enough, but he needs to talk to Bobby before he moves. Either he should stay and hunt it down, or they should be gone and in Nebraska, safe at Bobby’s before nightfall.

“I can memorize it while I work, Daddy.” Sam’s anxiety is getting the better of him, using the childish term, and John hugs the kid gently.

“That’s my boy. You go tell Dean he’s in charge of the kitchen and the living room.”

It doesn’t take long. As soon as Dean finishes, and John’s sure Sam will be done by the time he finishes with his own belongings, he puts the older boy’s nose in a corner without a word, lets Sam help, make the final check to make sure nothing is left behind. 

Two hours and they’re on the road. John has Sammy riding shotgun, and Dean hasn’t said a word. John’s glad. He still isn’t sure of his temper, and he needs time to think.

Bobby’s waiting for them, sends Dean on up to the room John usually stays in without a word to his old friend. Sam’s big eyes tug at both their hearts, and Bobby gives John a death glare.

“Winchester,” he growls, reminding John of their phone conversation, and goes out to the kitchen. John sits heavily down on the couch in the library, the safety of the place winding itself into his senses, taking the edge of his panic, and enhancing some of the anger. Sam hovers in the doorway, still clutching John’s journal.

“Sammy, come here,” he says softly, and when the kid comes, he pulls the boy into his lap, feels Sam’s fingers lace into the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “Something you need to know.” He’s never told either boy about the demon – at least not until last week. They’d known they were hunting down Mary’s killer, but had no details. He’d thought Dean was old enough, needed to know. Bobby thought they both should know, and John no longer has a choice, not after a call that close. He carefully tells the same to his twelve year old, hating himself as he does it. He never intended for his children to live paralyzed by fear, and he can only hope he’s taught Sam enough that it won’t happen now. John feels the boy clinging to him tighter than he had been before.

“Don’t be afraid, Sammy. That’s the first time in twelve years it’s got near, son. And we’re safe here at Bobby’s you know that.” Any number of hunts gone bad have wound up here, Sam knows the safety, has tested it.

“It’s MY fault,” Sam says, looking away.

“No, son. It’s not. It’s mine, for miscalculating, for leaving you alone.”

Sam looks scandalized. “You can’t go to school with me, and I won’t quit,” he says, and John can’t help but chuckle.

“No, I can’t, and you don’t have to. But I can do other things different, and I’m gonna.” Sam’s obviously comforted by that, leans back on his Dad’s shoulder, clearly tired and worn out.

“Is Dean in trouble?”

“Big trouble, Sammy. You boys know better than to go off hunting something on your own, don’t you.”

“Yessir.”

“You want to see if you can help Bobby, give him a hand?”

Sam nods, and John rests his chin on the boy’s head for a moment before letting him go, steeling himself for what’s coming next. His steps on the stairs are slow, and so is the opening of the bedroom door, revealing Dean. John lays four things on the desk, steers the boy over in front of it, glad that he had time to think this over. He points at his journal.

“Years of research, that you’re not read up on. Library cards, that you’ve never used. Conversations with other hunters you’ve never had.” He moves on to rest his hand on a box, opening it to reveal Dean’s Bible, holy water, and crucifix, some study notes, some stray packets of herbs. “Years of training about how to protect yourself, respect the unknown.” Then points at Dean’s small weapons kit, with his knife, the one Dean trains with religiously every day. “Years of training your reactions, learning about how to hunt, learning about people, learning how to spot possessions, unclean things, learning to defend yourself from them. You ignore all that, son, in favor of this?” And he points at the pistol he’d taken from Dean’s waistband. “The fact that you ignored the first three, tells me you went off half-cocked, without a plan, without intel, without backup, without preparing yourself. Thinking you’d stop it by killing the man it was possessing. To kill a man, Dean. Without trying anything else first. Think that makes you any better, or does it put you on a same level with one of hell’s own creatures?”

His boy is shaking with reaction, and John’s glad, as much as it hurts. “You’re the only one who’ll decide what kind of man you’ll be, Dean. That’s up to you. Me, I just teach you the guidelines, how to keep yourself safe. How to understand things. And how to be RESPONSIBLE,” he growls. “Did you use any of what I taught you today? Follow ANY of the family protocols?”

“Nosir.”

It’s quiet. “Get over here,” John says, and sits heavily down on the end of the bed. Dean doesn’t balk, there’s a couple tears on his face already, and John knows, thank God, that he got through to him with the simple lecture, far shorter than many he’s given his boys. He doesn’t give the boy the grace of undoing his own pants, or leaning over John’s knee. He unbuttons them himself, bodily puts the boy there, and not another word is said, John just starts spanking. He spanks for what seems like an eternity to him, must seem like longer to his boy, making sure each slap is sharp and will sting as much as possible. He ignores the whimpering that eases into hoarse sobs, the restrained wiggles that turn into kicking, and ignores how his boy finally just lays there, limp and defeated, wanting this to be a spanking that Dean will remember. Finally, he knows he can’t give Dean any more punishment, and he stops, feeling the boy shaking with sobs. He stands the teenager up, forces Dean’s chin up.

“I love you,” he says. “Don’t you ever dare try and throw that away again, like you did today, you understand me?” And he yanks the boy into his arms, trying not to see the pictures over and over again of hunters that demon had done for, trying not to see his boy in their place, to see Sam in their place.

John sits back down with his eldest son, who’s sobbing inarticulately, and the helpless sound hurts John to hear. The soft crying continues even as he falls asleep, breath still hitching, and John holds him gently, not knowing what to do now. The room seems awfully quiet, now. 

So he simply holds his boy, and thinks. Out of the jumble of his thoughts emerges a tentative plan, one fired by the fact that he’s holding his boy, something he hasn’t done in quite a while now. He’s gonna put the boy through his paces, make him prove over everything he’s learned, and take stock of Dean’s capabilities and promise while he’s doing it. And then he’ll do the same thing with Sam, only more quietly, less intense. 

None of this, it’s not what he dreamed of, for his two little boys. But none of them are the same people they were back in Lawrence, not even Sammy. John doesn’t have much anymore, just the boys, his Impala, and some tools for living life adequately. He can’t give them what he’d like to, and, truth told, he doesn’t have anything to give his boys other than his knowledge, and his love.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Melissa Etheridge - Talking To My Angel


End file.
